


dream it out loud

by thistidalwave



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Friends to Lovers, Gift Giving, M/M, Mutual Pining, Woke Up Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4808531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistidalwave/pseuds/thistidalwave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why <i>did</i> you call me?” Connor asks. He thinks it would have made a lot more sense for Aaron to call his parents.</p><p>“Because I miss you, too,” Aaron says without hesitating, and Connor’s breath catches in his throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dream it out loud

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asimplechord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asimplechord/gifts).



> Hi asimplechord! My McDavid spiral began (fourscore and seven years ago) with Aaron/Connor, so when I saw that we matched on them, I knew I had to write it. We love so many of the same tropes, I had such a hard time trying to pick just a few so the fic wouldn't get too unwieldy! (it kind of did anyway). I had so much fun writing this, and I hope you have just as much reading :D
> 
> ty to my lovely beta and pre-reader <3

**Aaron Ekblad**  
Congrats man! Welcome to the club

 **Connor McDavid**  
Thanks

 **Connor McDavid**  
:)

 **Aaron Ekblad**  
I’ve got a game in sauga on the 2nd. You around? Want to meet up? I’ve got some exceptional wisdom to pass down to you

 **Connor McDavid**  
Yeah, I’m up for it, if you’re sure it won’t distract you too much from your game.

 **Aaron Ekblad**  
Nah bud it’s cool!

—

Connor puts his phone down on the table, then picks it up and scrolls through his conversation with Aaron again. He’s trying to reassure himself that he’s sitting in this Tim Hortons in Mississauga for an actual reason, but he’s not positive it’s working. He’s still half-expecting Aaron to not show up, and then Connor will have to call Cameron and admit that he made him drive him here to get stood up. 

It’s only just coming up to their agreed upon meeting time, though. Connor will give Aaron at least twenty minutes after that. Probably more, if he’s honest. He can make his contraband hot chocolate last a long time. 

Aaron ends up only being a couple minutes late, and Connor has to wave to get his attention. Aaron beams when he spots him, and Connor’s heart starts racing. He firmly tells himself to chill out—Aaron’s just a guy playing in the league Connor will be joining next season. They both have exceptional status. They’ve texted; they’re friends. There’s no reason to be nervous.

“Hey, man,” Aaron says, holding out a hand for Connor to high-five and then fist bump. He sits down in the seat across from Connor and stretches out his legs under the table. His ankle brushes against Connor’s, and Connor shifts his leg out of the way. “It’s cool to see you.” 

“Yeah, nice seeing you, too,” Connor says, nodding. “Thanks for, uh. The congratulations.”

“‘Course,” Aaron says. “Not that there was ever any doubt, but it’s pretty awesome that it’s official now.” 

Connor shrugs, opening his mouth to say what he usually does about it being an honour and then remembering that Aaron is one of the only people who doesn’t need words to understand how Connor is feeling. “Yeah, it’s—yeah. It’s pretty unreal.”

“I know the feeling,” Aaron says. “Hell, I’m still feeling it.”

“Oh shit,” Connor says. “That was my next question.” 

Aaron laughs, loud and bright, and Connor grins, pleased with himself. “Ah, well, it does get better,” Aaron says. “It’s just hockey, you know? Just the game. The dream, but. Same ice at the end of the day.”

Connor nods. _Same ice at the end of the day_ , he repeats to himself, filing that away in its own special section of all the worldly advice he’s been given in his life. “How are the playoffs going?” he asks. He knows the answer because he’d been googling on his phone, but he wants to hear it from Aaron. 

“Well, we just advanced to the semifinals,” Aaron says, the huge smile on his face betraying his nonchalant tone. “The game was pretty intense—tied it 2-2 in the second and then went to overtime.” He sits up straight quickly. “Shit, man, we scored and ‘Sauga’s goalie threw his stick at the ref.” 

Connor raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “He _what_?” 

“I know,” Aaron says, nodding. “Emotions run high or whatever, and I get it, but. Still.”

“Still,” Connor agrees. “I always think, like—” He stops himself, realizing he’s about five seconds from spouting advice Aaron doesn’t want or need to hear, but Aaron gestures for him to continue. “I just keep that to the room, you know? It’s okay to be angry when you’re with your teammates. You should be angry when you lose, really. That’s how you get better.” 

Aaron nods. “Yeah, absolutely.”

“Bad form throwing sticks at anyone, let alone an official,” Connor says. He shrugs. 

“Losing straight up sucks,” Aaron says. 

“Yeah,” Connor says. “But hey—forget that guy. You won.” 

Aaron visibly brightens again. “Hell yeah we did,” he says. “And fuck am I tired. Gonna grab a coffee, you want anything?”

Connor shakes his head, holding up his still half-full cup. He fiddles with his phone while he waits, but there’s nothing interesting on it, and he’s too busy quietly freaking out about being one step closer to the NHL. It’s been sinking in, little by little, that making it to the OHL means everything is going as planned. He’s not surprised, exactly. Even though he’d never say so, he’s pretty confident in his work ethic getting him places. It’s just—these are places so few people get to go, and sitting here with Aaron makes it that much more real. 

“You look deep in thought over here,” Aaron says as he sits back down, coffee in hand. “What’s up?” 

Connor shrugs, and Aaron seems to accept that as an answer, because he continues on. “Well, I was thinking, and I promised you some exceptional wisdom, didn’t I?” 

“Something like that,” Connor agrees. “It really would, uh, be good to know what to like… expect.” 

“Well,” Aaron says, “let your mom help you pack, for one, because she knows what she’s doing. If you do it alone, you’ll fuck it up, guaranteed. I’m speaking from experience here.” 

Connor nods. He almost feels like he should be taking notes. 

Aaron shrugs then, though, and takes a long drink from his coffee. “Keep your head down, play hard, make people proud,” he says. “Everything everyone tells you. They mean it, usually. I dunno.” 

“That’s your wisdom? Listen to other people?” Connor teases.

“Hey,” Aaron says, rolling his eyes, “other people have their shit together. I just wanted an excuse to hang with you.”

Connor’s heart flutters in his chest, and this time it has nothing to do with nerves. “Right,” he agrees. “I’m pretty awesome, I dunno.”

Aaron snorts. “ _Where_ is the good Canadian boy I was promised?” he asks. 

“Ah, sorry, I think you picked out the wrong model,” Connor deadpans, and Aaron laughs. 

“Well, no need to return or exchange, anyway,” Aaron says. He shifts his chair closer to the table and props up his chin with his hand. Connor is acutely aware of how Aaron’s knees are knocking into his, and he wishes he wasn’t. There’s no way it _means_ anything. “It’s a bit early, but I think I’ll take my chances getting to know this one.” 

Aaron is still smiling, soft now, and Connor can’t seem to make himself look away. “Sure,” he agrees. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” 

Aaron contemplates for a moment, and then he asks, “If your goal wasn’t to make the NHL, then what would it be?” 

“Something that requires a lot of school,” Connor says immediately. “Like a lawyer or whatever.” 

“That was quick,” Aaron says, raising his eyebrows.

Connor shrugs. “Backup plan, you know? And, uh, my brother is at university, so. I’d want to do the same.”

Aaron nods. “Right.”

“What about you?” Connor asks. 

“Oh, um,” Aaron says, “I try not to think about it, you know? Keep the focus where it belongs.”

“Right,” Connor agrees wholeheartedly. “But you can’t cop out of answering the question.”

Aaron laughs. “Okay, fine. I think I’d study business and maybe get into nonprofit work? With kids, maybe, to encourage them to play team sports and stuff.” 

His answer is so perfect and lovely that Connor is suddenly sorry he turned the question back around. Not only is Aaron good-looking and fucking great at hockey, but he’s a thoughtful and smart guy, too. Connor despairs. “That’s cool,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant about it. “I can see you doing that.” 

“Thanks, man,” Aaron says. “Hey, what’s your favourite colour?” 

“Blue,” Connor says. “You?” 

Aaron says green, and they continue like that, throwing easy questions back and forth. Aaron’s answers, even the stupid ones, don’t exactly help Connor’s spark of a crush, and he’s almost relieved when Aaron admits that he needs to get back to the hotel. There’s only so much personal trivia Connor can handle at once. 

They fistbump goodbye outside on the sidewalk, and Connor waits for Aaron to turn a corner before he calls Cameron to come get him. Cameron reminds Connor that he owes him for this the entire drive back home, but Connor can’t bring himself to care. It was definitely worth it. 

He’s been home for less than an hour when he gets a text from Aaron. It reads: “Hey dude, nice hanging with you. I had an exceptional time lol ;)” 

Connor stares at the winky face and tries very hard not to read into it. But no matter how unlikely he knows it is, he can't stop himself from thinking that Aaron could possibly, maybe have some of the same dumb, almost crush-like feelings for Connor that Connor can feel himself developing for Aaron.

It’s stupid for a myriad of reasons, their inevitably diverging lives because of their chosen profession not the least of them. Connor texts Aaron back a simple “Me too :D” and firmly shoves the feelings and possibilities into a box of childish things in the back of his mind. 

—

Connor gets drafted to Erie just like everyone knew he would. It’s about as far from Barrie as the OHL gets, but that’s okay. Connor sees Aaron when they play each other and at Team Canada events, and he texts him fairly often. It’s more than enough. If they got to see each other more often, Connor’s not sure they’d end up going down any good roads.

It seems like every time they spend any length of time together, they can’t stop pushing each other—Connor’s _sure_ he’s not imagining it. During an interview at the 2013 U17 tournament, Aaron kept touching the small of Connor’s back and smiling his stupid smile while chirping him, and it was all Connor could do to collect himself enough to chirp him back. They’d gone out for food after that, just them, and there was no way it could be a date, but fuck if it hadn’t felt like one. 

Connor keeps expecting them to drift apart, to stop texting as much, but even when they’re both quiet for awhile, it never feels weird to talk again. If anything, they get even worse at the 2014 World Juniors—Connor keeps catching himself standing too close to Aaron, and Aaron never moves away. They spend so much time together that they start getting chirped about it, and Connor knows that’s a sign to pull back, to stop quietly chirping Aaron just to see him laugh and roll his eyes, but he can’t bring himself to actually do it. Even when he gets back to Erie, Dylan chirps him for always having his head in his phone. Whatever, though. Dylan can suck it. 

The day of Aaron’s draft is looming closer and closer. Connor has no doubt that Aaron will go first overall, and when the Panthers win the draft lottery, he ignores the sinking feeling in his heart. It doesn’t really matter where Aaron goes, anyway. The NHL is overwhelmingly far away, physical distance notwithstanding. 

They both make the playoffs, but the Colts are out in the second round, and the Otters lose in the semifinal. Connor can’t honestly say Aaron’s disappointing end to his OHL career takes precedence over Connor’s own frustration about Erie’s results, but he does think of it eventually. He commiserates with Aaron a bit over text, but eventually they both agree that it’s best to try and move on—not put it out of their minds, but remember and use it as motivation. Connor loves that Aaron thinks the same way as him about shit like this. He wonders briefly if Aaron will still text him when he’s in the NHL, then banishes the thought. It’s not worth stressing over. 

Connor resolves to concentrate on school and training. He’s not exactly expecting it when Aaron turns up for training with Gary, a huge grin on his face. Connor has time to think that he looks smaller than the last time Connor saw him before Aaron is dragging him in for a hug and a slap on the back.

“Dude,” Aaron says as he pulls back, “how’ve you been?”

“Good,” Connor says automatically. Aaron’s hands are still on Connor’s arms, and Connor is much too aware of it. “What are you—”

Aaron’s smile broadens. “Gonna need to bulk up before the combine,” he says. “And I thought—hm, who’s the biggest guy I know? And obviously I thought of you and called your trainer straight away.”

“Fuck off,” Connor says without any heat behind it. “Are you serious?” 

“About training here for the next few weeks?” Aaron asks. “You better believe it.” 

Connor can’t help but grin, and Aaron laughs and gives Connor a noogie. Connor doesn’t even mind that much.

It’s great for the first few days, working out alongside Aaron and hanging out with him, and then Connor starts thinking too hard about it. It feels—well, it feels a lot like a last hurrah, because it probably is. He knows Aaron wasn’t originally supposed to train here, and Connor can’t think of any other reason he would have changed his schedule. There’s hardly any time left before the draft combine, and then Aaron will be hilariously busy with media and the last days of high school and getting drafted, and Connor will be nothing more than an afterthought, if that. 

It’s nice that Aaron cares enough to do this, though. Connor’s not _positive_ that he meant it to be a gesture, but the more they hang out on their own and the more Aaron keeps falling into weird silences for a few moments, the more Connor thinks he did. 

Connor wishes he could bring himself to make a grand gesture of his own, but he can’t justify that kind of risk to himself. There are too many ways it could go wrong. What if Connor is projecting something meaningful onto Aaron’s silences when he’s actually just being quiet because he’s tired or distracted? What if Connor says or does something and it ruins what little time they have left? What if things get awkward between them forever and they end up having to play on the same team and it fucks with their game? Okay, so it probably wouldn’t be that bad, but—in Connor’s opinion, the potential reward doesn’t outweigh the potential consequences.

Dylan, for his totally unsolicited part, doesn’t seem to agree. “So, you and Ekblad”—he makes a vulgar hand gesture—”yet?” 

“ _Stromer_ ,” Connor says, making a face.

“What, seriously?” Dylan asks. “Have you at least—” He makes a different, equally vulgar hand gesture.

Connor throws a pillow at him. “Oh my _God_ , stop.”

Dylan catches the pillow and throws it back at Connor. “What the fuck are you waiting for, dude? He’s not gonna be here forever.” 

Connor is all too aware of that. He distracts Dylan from the topic by directing him to the XBox, but he can’t stop thinking about it himself. 

He especially can’t get it off his mind the night before Aaron has to leave for Philadelphia. It’s a fairly nice evening, if cloudy, and it’s definitely starting to feel more like summer. They decide to go for a walk and end up at a playground not far from Connor’s house. It’s deserted, a bit too late for any really young kids to be out and about. 

They’re making idle small talk, complaining about their upcoming exams and rehashing Aaron’s combine results, and all the while, in the back of his mind, Connor is trying to decide what he wants to do. He’s not even sure he wants to do anything—there are obviously reasons he hasn’t up til now—but there’s always been the possibility of changing his mind before. Now it’s his last chance: he either needs to change his mind or let it go. 

The conversation comes to a natural pause, and Connor thinks _Now? Should I—_ but then Aaron is wandering off, kicking at a rock. Connor follows him, all the things he could do running through his mind. He could reach out and grab Aaron’s wrist, tug him back and say _Hey, I need to tell you something._ He could get him to turn around and just kiss him. He could kick the rock out of Aaron’s path and say _Haven’t you always wanted to just say fuck it?_

His heart is beating too fast to do any of it. Aaron kicks the rock clear across the field and stops walking by the tire swing. He sits down on it, balancing himself carefully with his hands on the chains, and grins up at Connor. “You’re still tiny from down here,” Aaron teases.

“Hey, who was it that said I was the biggest guy they know?” Connor says back, an exchange so familiar it’s nearly scripted. Connor steps closer so that he has to look straight down at Aaron. He meant to be intimidating, but Aaron is still looking at him and smiling, and their knees are knocking together. Connor sways slightly and grabs the chains of the tire swing to steady himself. He leans down slightly without ever really processing the decision to, and Aaron doesn’t move. 

It would be so easy to close the distance between their faces. It _should_ be easy, but this isn’t scripted anymore. “Hi,” Connor says quietly, and Aaron looks away.

“Hey,” he says. Connor can hear him clear his throat. “I’m thinking, like—I don’t wanna jinx it, you know? But I’d look good with a tan, right?”

It takes Connor a moment to parse that through the fog in his brain, and when he does he takes a step back and lets go of the tire swing, more startled than anything. “Sure,” he says, even though he can’t exactly stomach the thought of Aaron suntanning in Florida right now. “Of course you would.” 

Aaron has a strange expression on his face for a moment, but it’s gone so quickly that Connor isn’t quite sure he wasn’t smiling the whole time. “Where would you go if you got to pick?” Aaron asks. “Wait, don’t answer that. The Leafs?”

Connor shrugs.

“Of course,” Aaron says. “Wouldn’t be you to pick a decent team. You’ve got to save an entire franchise yourself, eh?” He kicks Connor gently in the ankle, and Connor rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll go wherever I’m drafted,” Connor says. 

“That wasn’t the question,” Aaron says, smiling faintly at Connor, “but yeah. I guess we all will.” 

—

Connor watches Aaron get drafted from the comfort of his couch. Aaron looks thrilled as he pulls on the bright red jersey and poses for a picture, and Connor carefully doesn’t let any of his conflicted feelings show on his face. 

“That’ll be you next year,” his dad says, sounding pleased. “Excited yet?” 

“Sure, yeah,” Connor agrees. “Of course.” 

“Too soon,” his mom says wistfully. 

Connor rolls his eyes and then smiles at her and leans across the couch to hug her quickly to show that he doesn’t mean it. “It won’t be too bad,” he says. At least he’s more likely to be drafted somewhere in the area than to _Florida_. Fuck.

“No,” his mom agrees, patting him on the shoulder. “It’ll be fine, you’re right.” 

The draft goes on. Connor watches as more and more of his friends and guys he’s played against put on jerseys and smile from ear to ear, and he texts all the ones he has phone numbers for as they go. The first round ends, and Connor still hasn’t texted Aaron. He opens up their conversation and stares at it. 

He doesn’t know what to say. There isn’t really anything to say that wasn’t said in the pause before Aaron had looked away from Connor. 

In the end, Connor texts Aaron _Red’s definitely your colour_ and doesn’t look at his phone for awhile.

—

The summer passes quickly, a blur of training and Dylan’s road hockey games and a few days at the cottage for a change of pace. By the time Connor’s back in Erie, he’s more than ready to hit the ice in earnest again. It’s good to see all the boys, and he’s even glad to start back up with school. 

The Otters’ season gets off to a good start with a win streak that doesn’t break until mid-October with an away game against the Knights. Mitch chirps them—mostly Dylan—via text the entire bus ride home after, and even though Connor goes straight to bed when he gets back to his billet house, he doesn’t sleep well.

There’s a package for him the next day. He finds it on the kitchen table when he gets up for breakfast before school, and when his billet mom comes in to see him looking at it, Stephanie says, “Oh, that came for you yesterday.”

The return address very clearly says Aaron Ekblad at the top. Connor has no idea what it might be, and he immediately uses his butter knife to break the tape seal on the box, earning him a slightly judgemental look from Stephanie.

There’s a cookie tin in the box, and when Connor opens it, there are actual chocolate chip cookies inside. They’ve been carefully packed tight, and they look homemade. Connor looks through the box twice, but there isn’t a note or anything.

“Did Aaron send you cookies?” Stephanie asks. “What a nice boy.” 

“I guess so,” Connor says. He holds out the tin. “Want one?” 

She takes one, and so does Connor. It’s really good. He shoots a text to Aaron: _Cookies???_

 _Are they good?_ Aaron responds hours later, when Connor is checking his phone after practice that evening.

_Yes, if not good for you. You made them?_

_Yep :)_

Connor doesn’t know what to do with that, so he just texts back _Thanks_. Aaron responds with a string of happy emojis. 

It seems unreal that Aaron is taking time out of his busy NHL schedule to bake and send Connor cookies, of all things. Connor figures he must’ve just had extra or something, though he doesn’t know why Aaron couldn’t find people in Florida to eat cookies. He resolves not to think about it. 

He’s mostly successful until early November, when another package from Aaron arrives. This time it contains brownies. Connor only lets himself eat one, and it’s actually—probably the best brownie Connor’s ever had. There are way too many for Connor to eat alone, and even with the Cataldes’ kids around, the brownies are still living in their container on the kitchen counter when Dylan comes over a few days later, so naturally he finds them. 

“Did your billet mom make these?” Dylan asks. 

Connor is quiet for a beat too long, and Dylan looks over at him in question. Connor sighs. “No, uh. Aaron sent them.” 

“Ekblad sent you brownies?” Dylan asks, eyebrows reaching for the heavens. 

“Yeah,” Connor says. 

“Huh,” Dylan says. He eats one, declares it decent, and doesn’t mention it again. Connor is kind of unnerved by the lack of response, but he’s not going to question it. 

Not long after that, Connor breaks his hand. It’s stupid and it hurts, and Connor would take it all back because of the endless questions alone. Then again, endless repetitive questions are a constant—it’s not being able to play hockey in between them that’s the problem.

Amongst the many incredulous and/or worried texts Connor gets, Aaron sends him a crying face and a muscle emoji. Connor replies with a side-eye face and a sad face. 

In December, Aaron sends more cookies—snickerdoodles this time, and about twice as many as the last time to boot. Connor brings them to practice the day after the Otters win a game and passes them around. 

Most of them seem a little wary at first, but no one voices their concern until the container makes its way to Brinksy. “What is this, a reward for good behaviour?” he asks, and Connor makes a face.

“Yeah,” he says, “so you better eat one.” 

“You can bake?” Brinksy asks. “You can bake with one hand?” 

Connor shrugs. Thankfully, Brinksy stops asking questions. 

Unfortunately, Dylan is eyeing him speculatively. Connor ignores him right up until they’re leaving the rink together, and Dylan turns to him and says, “You didn’t bake those, did you?” 

Connor shifts the now mostly empty container under one arm. He wonders if Aaron ever wants the containers back. Maybe Connor should mail them. “No,” he admits.

“Aaron,” Dylan says. It’s not a question, so Connor doesn’t answer. “What, is the NHL not exciting enough for him? Is he pursuing a career as a baker?” 

“I don’t know,” Connor says, more frustration leaking into his tone than he’d intended. “He doesn’t send a note with them, and when I text to ask, he just asks if they’re good. Am I taste testing or what? I’m pretty sure people in Florida have taste buds. He doesn’t need to send _me_ cookies.” 

Dylan stares at him. Connor sighs. “I just don’t get it,” he says.

“Connor,” Dylan says, putting a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Davo, my man. I love you, but you’re really dumb.” 

“That’s not helpful,” Connor says, shaking Dylan’s hand off. “And it’s rude, too.” 

Dylan just laughs at him. Connor wants to punch him, but then he might break his other hand, so he lets himself have another snickerdoodle instead. 

His hand is fine for World Juniors, which is definitely a relief after months of telling everyone it would be. He tells the media that he’s just excited to get back on the ice for real, and he means it. It doesn’t hurt that Team Canada pretty much dominates from the start.

Aaron texts Connor good luck for every game—sometimes hours before and sometimes late enough that Connor doesn’t see it until after. When they win gold, Aaron sends him a string of exclamation points that Connor doesn’t see until he wakes up the next day. He texts back a single screaming emoji and gets up to find water.

After that, it’s back to Erie and the grind of the regular season. Connor doesn’t mind; not being able to play at all is still fresh in his mind, and he’s pretty ahead in most of his classes so he doesn’t have to worry too much about that part of his workload. 

He’s up late on a Tuesday in February, playing Angry Birds on his phone in an attempt to lull himself to sleep instead of worrying about the game against Guelph the next day. They lost to Guelph the Friday before, and Connor is determined not to let it happen again, but not getting any sleep isn’t doing him any favours. 

He’s lining up a shot on the game when his phone starts vibrating, the screen suddenly replaced with a picture of Aaron making a stupid face. Connor nearly drops his phone on his face, he’s so startled, and it takes him longer than it probably should to process that Aaron is _calling_ him, and he fumbles to answer it.

“Hello?” His mind is racing, offering up all kinds of bad things that could have happened that would lead to a phone call from Aaron. They never call each other, they just send each other emojis. And cookies, on Aaron’s side. 

“Hey,” Aaron says. He doesn’t _sound_ dead or gravely injured. “What’s up?” 

“Wh—nothing,” Connor says. “Why are you—what’s up with you?” 

“Sorry for calling so late,” Aaron says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I’m—well. I dunno.”

“Are you drunk calling me?” Connor asks. If there were a person who would apologize for a drunk call, it would be Aaron. 

Aaron laughs. “No, though I kind of wish I was after that game,” he says. “We lost.”

Connor knows, he’d seen it on NHL.com. The Panthers are on a road trip right now, and they’ve lost three in a row including this one. “Yeah,” Connor says. “Are you still in… uh, Chicago?” 

“Yep,” Aaron says. “Heading out in the morning.”

“Oh,” Connor says, “cool.”

There’s a long, awkward silence. Connor stares at the ceiling. “Shit,” Aaron says finally. “This is embarrassing. I’m, like, sad calling you. I miss being at home. I miss Barrie, and I miss not losing all the time, and, uh. Fuck.”

Connor has no idea what he’s supposed to say to that. “Um. But it’s the NHL?”

“Yeah,” Aaron agrees. “That part is the shit, I love it. It just kind of sucks right now, that’s all.” He pauses, then adds, “Fuck, sorry for calling you, I just—”

“Why _did_ you call me?” Connor asks. He thinks it would have made a lot more sense for Aaron to call his parents.

“Because I miss you, too,” Aaron says without hesitating, and Connor’s breath catches in his throat. 

“Oh,” he says. “Um… same.” 

Aaron laughs softly. “Good, you’d better.”

“I got your cookies,” Connor says, then he immediately feels stupid. He’d texted Aaron about that a week ago, just like usual. 

Aaron’s tone perks up, though. “Yeah? You still have them?” 

“No,” Connor says. “I gave most of them away.” They were lemon-flavoured this time, but they disappeared just as quickly as the chocolate ones. “Pretty bold flavour choice.” 

“Yeah, well, with lemon you can pretend they’re a little healthy, I thought you’d like that,” Aaron says.

Connor snorts. “Sure,” he says. “If that worked at all, I would.” 

“I tried,” Aaron says. He sounds much more cheerful now. 

“They were good, though,” Connor says. “I liked them. There were just a lot.” 

“Oh yeah?” Aaron says, voice tinged with pride. “You liked them?”

“Yeah,” Connor confirms.

“So I should keep sending them, then?” 

“Yes,” Connor says immediately. He might not know why Aaron is sending him baked goods, but he does know for sure that he doesn’t want him to stop doing it. The cookies have to mean something, even if it’s just that Aaron thinks of him first when his stress baking gets out of hand.

“Okay,” Aaron says, teasing, “I will.” Connor can imagine the smug smirk he must have on his face. It should probably be irritating, but he mostly just feels fond. 

“Good,” Connor says.

“Good,” Aaron parrots back, and they both laugh. They’re quiet for a minute, and then Aaron says, “Hey, Connor? Tell me a dumb story?” 

“A dumb story?” Connor asks. “Uh, okay.” He wracks his brain in an attempt to come up with something. It isn’t that hard, considering how he spends ninety percent of his life with a team of teen boys. “So, um, last week we were on the bus, and Mac decided we should play Crazy Eights, right? Except, like, ten of us tried to join in. We had three decks of cards, and we hadn’t discussed the rules… so, uh, that ended with cards everywhere and Mush yelling at us to shut up so he could sleep.” 

Aaron is laughing softly on the other end of the line. “Wow,” he says. “That’s…”

Connor can practically see Aaron’s incredulous look. “Hey,” Connor says, “you asked for dumb.”

“I did,” Aaron says, smile evident in his voice. “Thank you.”

Connor feels warm all the way down to his toes. “You’re welcome. You want another one?” 

“Bring it,” Aaron says. “Try and top how dumb that last one was.”

“Oh, you asked for it,” Connor says, laughing. He settles in to come up with the stories that he thinks will make Aaron laugh the most. He’s not disappointed.

By the time they hang up, Connor is exhausted, but he doesn’t regret a single minute of it. 

—

The season goes on. Aaron doesn’t sad call Connor again, but he does text more often, and packages of baked goods continue to arrive in the mail monthly. By the time April rolls around, Connor’s got it in his head that he wants to go to the draft lottery, and once he’s decided on it, there’s no way he’s changing his mind. He convinces Dylan to drive there with him, which basically means he has to listen to rap all the way there, which wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for Dylan trying to _also_ rap. Connor loves him, but he’s never going to be Drake. 

They announce that the first pick will go to the Edmonton Oilers, and Connor’s mind goes completely blank. He’d been expecting somewhere close to home like Buffalo, even hoping for it, and hearing that—

It doesn’t matter. It’s the NHL. In Aaron’s words: even when it sucks, it’s the shit.

Connor has no idea what he did with his face when it was announced, but he kind of wishes he hadn’t put himself in a position where the entire world got to see it. He’s careful to say all the right things, to tell everyone that he’d be honoured to go to any team, that the chances it would be Edmonton were low so of course he was shocked, and hey—anything can happen, right? Today just proves that you can’t make assumptions.

He’s tired by the time they get to leave, and his head hurts. Dylan hands him a bottle of water and mercifully doesn’t say anything, just gets in the driver’s seat of the car. 

Connor’s phone is burning a hole in his pocket. He knows he should look at it, but he also knows it’s going to make his headache worse. He elects to finish his water before venturing in. 

It’s pretty bad—his notifications are a mess. He ignores most of them and lets himself check if there’s a text from Aaron. His heart jumps slightly when he sees that there is. All it says is _Edmonton… brrrrrr_ with two snowflake emojis, but weirdly it makes Connor smile. He sends back two sun emojis. 

“What are you grinning at?” Dylan asks, glancing over. 

“Nothing,” Connor says too quickly. 

“Oh, please,” Dylan says. Connor has no doubt that he’s figured out exactly who Connor is texting. “You know what, I don’t even want to know anyway.” He seems to take that as his cue that’s it’s okay to talk now, though, because he adds, “You okay?” 

Connor nods. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says. “Mostly it’s just—weird, you know? And far.” It’s an understatement; Edmonton doesn’t really seem close to anything. It especially doesn’t seem close to Florida, which shouldn’t matter that much, but Connor can’t help thinking about it anyway.

“I know,” Dylan agrees. “Shit’s crazy, man.”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “Crazy.” 

—

Erie is defeated by Oshawa in the OHL championship series, and it’s all Connor can do to not break something—or someone—out of frustration. He manages to keep it together and moves on to focusing on getting ready for the combine. He can’t help but think of this time last year, when he and Aaron had spent most days together. It makes his heart ache slightly, thinking about how that ended, and he has to make himself stop. It all seems to have worked out great for Aaron anyway, and Connor is determined to make that so for himself as well. A year later—that should be more than enough time to get over something that never happened. 

Connor watching the Worlds gold medal game has nothing to do with how much he has or has not moved on—it’s hockey, so of course he watches it. Canada plays beautifully and wins handily, and Connor finds himself beaming at the screen with an overwhelming feeling of national pride. He catches a glimpse of Aaron’s grin in the cluster of celebrating players, and he turns off the TV before it can show any post-game interviews.

He goes to take a nap—he’d skipped his usual earlier to watch the game—and he must sleep for longer than he meant to, because when he wakes up it’s late evening and his phone is ringing. He answers it in a daze, rubbing at his eyes. “‘lo?”

“Connooooooor!” a very loud Aaron says into his ear. He can hear the background noise of a party. “Connor, dude!”

“Eks?” Connor asks, despite actually having the brainpower to have already deduced that. 

“Yeah, man! We won!” Aaron says. “Did you see?”

“Yeah, I saw,” Connor says, fully awake now. “You were great.”

“Sweeeeet,” Aaron says, and then, “Wait, what was that last? Sorry for yelling, hold on!” 

Connor waits, listening to the unintelligible background noise. He thinks he hears someone say “Is that McDavid?” but there’s no response, and a moment later the noise fades considerably and Aaron is back. 

“I went to the stairwell,” Aaron informs him. “Say what you said again?” 

“I said you were great,” Connor says. He can feel himself blushing, which is stupid because it’s both true and an implication of nothing. 

“Thanks,” Aaron says, voice warm. He’s still talking too loud, made even more evident by the echo off the empty walls. “I wish you were here.” 

Connor chest aches. He stares at the bumps his toes make under his comforter and says, “Yeah.” 

“We would’ve smashed ‘em,” Aaron says.

“You did smash them,” Connor points out.

“Yeah, but _we_ ,” Aaron insists. “Together.” 

Connor bites his lip. “Yeah,” he says quietly. He’d be a liar if he said he never considered how incredible it would be to be at Worlds—to be there with Aaron specifically. Knowing that Aaron, even while actually living the dream, is thinking about wanting Connor to be there… it’s almost too much to handle. 

“Hey!” Aaron says suddenly. “Not long until I get to see you.” 

“Yeah,” Connor agrees automatically, and then, “Wait, what?” 

“At the draft,” Aaron says.

“You’re going to be at the draft?” Connor asks. Sure, the draft is in Florida this year, but Connor had assumed Aaron would be going back home from Prague and staying there for the summer.

Aaron starts laughing. “Oh shit,” he says. “Shit, that was supposed to be a surprise, fuck.” 

Connor grins helplessly into the phone. “You fucked that up good,” he teases. “I guess I’ll see you soon then.” 

“So soon!” Aaron says. There’s a loud noise like a door slamming open, and then someone yelling Aaron’s name. “Shut up!” Aaron yells back. “I should go, dude.”

“Yeah, go,” Connor says. “Have another drink for me. And then drink a lot of water.” 

“You got it,” Aaron says. “Bye! See you soon!” 

“See you soon,” Connor says, and then his phone beeps to let him know the connection was broken. He lies back on his bed and hugs a pillow to his chest. _Soon_ , he thinks happily. As if he didn’t have enough to be excited about. 

—

Connor gets drafted first overall to the Edmonton Oilers. After spending a month that feels like forever being paraded around with the other top prospects and trying to find time to study for his finals in between, the actual moment is over quickly. His jersey has a 97 on it. He keeps getting stuck on that. 

“It’s like, they wanted me that bad?” Connor says to Aaron the night after the first round. He’s four drinks in and feeling it. “They want me to be the next _Gretzky_.” 

“Connor,” Aaron says, grabbing Connor’s hands and looking at him seriously, “you could _be_ the next Gretzky.” 

“Shit,” Connor breathes, swaying on the spot. Somehow when Aaron says it it sounds plausible instead of outlandish. “I could.” He starts laughing, then abruptly stops. “I need another drink.”

“Gotcha covered,” Dylan says from somewhere beside him. 

Connor looks over at him and grins. “Heyyyyy, number three!” He wants to take the drink Dylan is offering him, but that would mean letting go of Aaron’s hands. “Can you—”

“No,” Dylan says. “Take it or I’m drinking it myself.” 

Connor pouts, but he does take the cup. It’s fine, he has two hands. “Stromer,” he says slowly, “we’re in the NHL.”

“Yeah, buddy!” Dylan crows, throwing himself onto Connor in a hug. Connor does his best to hug back. He thinks he manages pretty well for someone with his hands full. Aaron, on the other side of Dylan, is laughing at them. 

“Shut up,” Connor says, but it comes out sounding like he doesn’t want Aaron to shut up at all. 

“Nah,” Aaron says, still laughing.

“Ugh,” Dylan says, disentangling himself from Connor. “I’m gonna go find Mitch, you two have fun with this fond voice bullshit.” 

Connor attempts to wave goodbye with his drink despite the fact that Dylan is only going to the other side of the hotel room. They’re not exactly having a _wild_ party, but there are a lot of first round picks in this room, and a lot of alcohol as well. 

“I’m so glad you came,” Connor tells Aaron. “Like, this would be cool no matter what, but it’s even _cooler_ that you’re here.” 

Aaron smiles at him. His teeth are blindingly white; Connor wants to know how the hell he does that. “I’m glad I’m here too,” he says. “More shots?” 

“More shots,” Connor agrees. 

They do have to be up early the next morning, so people start dropping off fairly early. Connor tries to be a responsible person and be one of them, but he’s already been pretty irresponsible and it seems like a totally fine idea to bring Aaron with him, so it doesn’t exactly work. Connor flops down on his bed and drags Aaron after him, and they turn on the TV to some shitty movie that Connor can’t follow.

They’re basically cuddling on the bed. Connor is very aware of this, but he’s also drunk enough that he’s not overthinking it to the point of awkwardness. It’s nice, that’s all. It doesn’t have to be a thing. It would also be okay if it _was_ a thing. Everything’s fine.

“I missed you,” Aaron says suddenly.

Connor jerks his head up to look at him. “Yeah?” he says, drawing out the vowels. “You told me. And I missed you, too.” 

Aaron shifts so that he’s sitting up more, forcing Connor to do the same. He settles against Aaron’s side, and Aaron puts an arm around his shoulders. “I know,” he says, “I just—I thought eventually I’d miss you less.” 

It kind of hurts to hear, even though Connor had spent months thinking the same thing about him. “But you didn’t?” he asks hopefully. 

Aaron shakes his head. “More like it got worse,” he says.

Connor nods. “It sucks.” 

“Got that right,” Aaron says. They fall silent, and Connor closes his eyes. He could probably fall asleep right here, warm and next to Aaron. “Connor?” Aaron asks quietly.

“Mmmm?” Connor responds, forcing his eyes open. 

“Do you remember—well. Last year? In the park?” 

Connor is suddenly wide awake. “Yeah,” he says warily. 

“You know why I didn’t kiss you?” Aaron asks.

Connor’s heart is threatening to beat right out of his ribcage. “Why?” he asks. His voice sounds shaky even to his own ears. 

“Because I thought it would hurt too much to be away from you if we did, but, uh. It didn’t work.” Aaron is looking away, staring across the room, and biting his lower lip. 

“It didn’t work for me, either,” Connor says, and Aaron looks right at him. 

“No?” he asks, sounding surprised. Connor shakes his head, and the spread of Aaron’s pleased smile across his face is so lovely he wants to crawl inside it and live there. He smiles back, and they stay like that, smiling with their faces close together, for long enough that Connor wonders if either of them are ever going to break the moment. “Fuck,” Aaron says eventually, which is not the kissing Connor was hoping for, “I wish we could actually decide where we go.”

“We can’t,” Connor says, dropping his gaze.

“I know,” Aaron says.

He sounds so wrecked that Connor immediately wants to fix it, and he’s saying, “But we could…” before he can think it through. The rest of the sentence disappears, gone before it was even formulated.

“What?” Aaron asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I don’t know,” Connor says, frustration leaking into his voice. “There must be some way… something we can do that’s just ours.”

“We could get married,” Aaron says.

Connor laughs. “Sure,” he says, “okay.” 

“Okay,” Aaron says.

“Okay,” Connor parrots. He’s not entirely sure how serious Aaron is.

“Right now.”

“Now?” 

“Now,” Aaron says. “Let’s go.”

Apparently he’s pretty serious, because he’s actually moving to get off the bed. Connor watches him in mild disbelief. “Where?” he asks.

“I don’t know, but we can find somewhere,” Aaron says. He sounds so sure about it that Connor isn’t quite sure why he’s questioning this, and he scrambles to get off the bed as well. 

Just then, the door to the hotel room bangs open and Dylan comes in, grinning from ear to ear with one hand over his eyes. “Watch out, coming through, please make yourselves decent—”

“We’re wearing clothes,” Aaron says. 

Dylan looks between his fingers, then drops his hand entirely. “So you are. Well then. Sup, bros?” 

“Aaron and I are gonna go get married,” Connor says. “Right now.” 

Dylan laughs. “Really?” he asks, and when neither of them say they’re joking, “Oh man, no way am I missing this.” 

“You can be my best man,” Connor informs him, because it seems like the kind of thing you do when you’re getting married. 

“Fuck yeah,” Dylan says. “You got rings?” 

They do not, in fact, have rings, so all three of them venture out of the hotel on a mission to find somewhere to acquire them. Being that it’s in the middle of the night in Sunrise, there aren’t many options. Dylan pokes at his phone and declares that he’s got it, and then they’re following him through the streets. Aaron holds Connor’s hand the entire time, their fingers threaded together, and Connor forgets to worry that they’re going to be mugged entirely. 

It turns out Dylan was leading them to a pawn shop. It looks like it came straight out of a movie, complete with so-bright-it’s-blue lighting and dirty glass cases. There are rings, though, and they even manage to find some plain ones that fit, more or less. Aaron pays for them because, according to him, he did the asking, and Connor can’t fault that logic. 

“So, uh,” Connor says when they’re standing outside the pawn shop, “who’s gonna, like… marry us?”

“Yeah,” Dylan says, “it’s late, no way the courthouse is open or whatever.”

Silence reigns, and then Aaron snaps his fingers and says, “Jagr!”

“Jagr?” Connor repeats.

“He’s an officiant, he got a thing from the internet,” Aaron says. “We can ask him.” 

“Jaromir Jagr?” Connor asks. 

“I’m gonna skip right over how and why you know that and ask if Jagr is even in town,” Dylan says.

“Let’s find out,” Aaron says, pulling out his phone.

Connor stares at him. This is all starting to feel distinctly unreal, and not even in a just-got-drafted-to-the-NHL kind of way. It’s more of a just-fell-down-the-rabbit-hole feeling. He makes incredulous faces at Dylan and gets stupid faces back for the entire time Aaron is on the phone.

It turns out that Jagr is, for whatever reason, in town, and he’s also, for whatever reason, willing to officiate their wedding. “He’s going to bring paperwork,” Aaron says cheerfully. Connor nods.

They meet actual Jaromir Jagr back at the hotel—apparently there’s a cute little garden area out in the courtyard. Connor supposes there are worse places in the world to have a split-second decision wedding. 

“All right, boys,” Jagr says. “Who wants to say their vows first? And you want the standard or your own?”

“I’ll do my own,” Aaron says. He pauses, then asks, “This doesn’t have to be long, right?” 

Jagr shrugs. 

“Okay,” Aaron says. “Connor, I just want you to know that the past year of my life has been incredible for a lot of reasons, but I still want to spend, like, the rest of my years with you, because I miss you when you’re not around. And you’re smart and funny and all that shit.” 

“Cool,” Connor says. Aaron grins and takes Connor’s left hand, sliding one of the rings they bought onto his finger. Connor waggles his fingers, and Aaron laughs. 

“McDavid?” Jagr prompts. 

“Um,” Connor says. He was not planning on having to give any wedding speeches for a very long time. “Aaron… I’ve been doing the same things as you except a year later for years now, which is kind of poetic, I guess. But uh… getting married, that’s something we can do for the first time together, right? And I’m looking forward to a lot more first times.” 

Dylan snorts. “I bet you are,” he says suggestively, and Connor is positive that if he turned around Dylan would be miming something obscene. He ignores him and slides Aaron’s ring onto his finger. Aaron threads their fingers together and squeezes his hand. 

They go through the whole “I do,” thing, and then Jagr has them sign the papers he’d brought. Dylan gets to sign as witness, which he seems way too happy about. 

“Now the grooms may kiss,” Jagr tells them, voice grave, and Connor’s heart almost stops.

“Uhhhh,” he says, but then Aaron is tugging him in with a hand on the back of his neck, and Connor curls his hands into the front of Aaron’s shirt and lets it happen. Aaron’s lips are slightly cold, but the rest of his mouth is warm. He tastes like liquor and happiness, and Connor would gladly get drunk and have Jagr marry them in the middle of the night a thousand times over for this. 

His lips are buzzing when they stop kissing, and he immediately wishes they hadn’t stopped. 

“Gross,” Dylan declares. “That’s my cue to find someone else’s room to crash in, I think.” 

“Have fun, boys,” Jagr says wisely. “And keep your chins up tomorrow.” 

Connor’s not listening. He’s too busy kissing Aaron again.

—

Connor wakes up to the familiar sound of his phone’s alarm. There’s a distinctly unfamiliar weight against his lower back, and when he raises his head from the pillow and squints, he realizes that it’s Aaron’s arm. They’ve got their legs tangled up together too, and Connor has no idea how the sheet is configured at all. He tries to get out of the bed without disturbing Aaron, which ends with both of them tumbling out entirely, Connor breaking Aaron’s fall. 

“Ow,” Connor says, his brain still not fully online. 

“What the fuck,” Aaron mumbles, and then he props himself up with his arms so he’s not entirely squashing Connor anymore. His hair is flopping into his eyes, and it’s adorable. 

“Good morning?” Connor says, and Aaron beams and leans in for a kiss.

Connor’s alarm is still going off. The annoying repetitive vibration of it along with the nice shock of kissing Aaron wakes Connor up the rest of the way, and he jerks away without thinking about it. “Wait,” he says. “Did we—”

Aaron’s eyes widen, and he lifts his left hand. They both stare at the ring on his finger. “We got married,” Aaron says disbelievingly. 

“Holy shit,” Connor says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. It’s far too early and his head hurts far too much to deal with this. 

Aaron gets up, taking the sheet with him. Connor grabs at the edge of it and pouts when he misses. “What the fuck is that _noise_?” Aaron asks, and Connor switches his focus to feeling around on the floor. He finds his phone and swipes his hand across the front, blessedly making the noise stop.

Then he looks down, and holy shit, that is a lot more texts than he’d been expecting, even with having just been drafted first overall. In particular there are a lot of Instagram notifications, and Connor only has those turned on for people he knows, so… 

He taps cautiously on one of them and then nearly drops his phone. He refreshes the page as if that will make the picture change, but no—it’s still very clearly a selfie of the two of them, Aaron’s chin hooked over Connor’s shoulder and both of them holding up their left hands and grinning. They look blissfully happy and very drunk. Connor doesn’t remember taking the picture at all. He very abruptly feels like he’s going to throw up, and then he drops his phone on the floor and stumbles to the bathroom to do just that. 

He rinses out his mouth after and splashes cold water on his face. It’s not so bad, he tells himself, pressing his forehead against the cool surface of the mirror. Sure, it was stupid to get married, and it was even fucking stupider to _Instagram_ it for the entire world to see, but—Connor doesn’t totally _mind_ being married to Aaron. They can do anything when they put their minds to it, so of course they can make this work. 

When he leaves the bathroom, it’s to find Aaron sitting on the edge of the bed, now wearing last night’s clothes and staring down at Connor’s phone. Connor digs a pair of underwear out of his bag and puts them on before going to sit next to Aaron. 

“We fucked up,” Aaron says, holding the phone out to Connor. Connor takes it and locks it so he doesn’t have to see the picture again. He remembers, hazily, how happy he’d been last night. It doesn’t seem real at all. 

“Yeah,” Connor agrees, because fuck, there’s no way his family hasn’t seen that picture, and this is not the way he wanted them to find out at all. It’s not the way he wanted anyone to find out. 

“This is… it’s bad,” Aaron says. 

Connor nods. “Pretty bad.” There’s a space between them that Connor is all too aware of in a completely different way than he used to be aware of how close they were. He wants to touch Aaron, but he’s afraid that Aaron will move away from him. There’s so much tension it’s stifling, and Connor gropes for a way to break it. “Uh… was Jagr there last night?”

Aaron looks up. “I think he married us,” he says, and they stare at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter. 

Something in Connor’s chest that he hadn’t even realized was tight loosens, and he relaxes. He shifts his leg so that their thighs are touching, Connor’s bare skin against Aaron’s trousers, and then a moment later Aaron moves his leg away again.

They’re not laughing anymore. “This was a mistake,” Aaron says, not looking at Connor. “We shouldn’t have gotten married.” His voice sounds so heavy and final that Connor can’t do anything but nod.

“You’re right,” he says. “It was stupid.”

No matter how true that statement is, it still hurts to say it. Connor _wants_ to be stupid with Aaron, but if Aaron really thinks it was a mistake… 

“I think I’d better go,” Aaron says, standing. “You have stuff to do. We’ll talk later?” 

Connor nods again. “Later,” he says. It feels like another lie, like they’ll just never see each other again. He watches Aaron leave, wishing he knew the right thing to say to fix everything—but he doesn’t, and the door clicks shut behind Aaron, leaving Connor sitting in silence.

He checks the time on his phone and unlocks the screen out of habit. His and Aaron’s happy faces stare up at him, and this time Connor notices the caption: _Best day ever._

So much for that.

—

Aaron wasn’t wrong, Connor does have stuff to do. He was expecting a pretty low key second day of the draft, but there’s little to no chance of that now. He wants to crawl under the bed just thinking about the media scrums.

He doesn’t. He gets dressed and goes to meet his family for breakfast instead. At least whatever his mom says is guaranteed to be a million times worse than anything the media could ever say. There’s always a silver lining.

His mom cries a little almost right away. Connor sits across the table in the diner they picked to eat at and feels like the literal worst son on the planet. “I just don’t know why you wouldn’t _tell_ us,” Kelly says, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. 

“Did you do this because you thought that we’d—” Brian starts, then stops. “Like… we don’t _care_ , we just… this was a very stupid move, Connor.” 

“I know,” Connor says. 

“Have you been… I don’t know, secretly dating?” Brian asks.

Connor cringes. “No.”

Everyone stares at him incredulously after that one. Connor can’t blame them, it obviously seems insane to marry someone you haven’t even been dating. Explaining what he and Aaron have been to each other for years now is way too complicated to even make an attempt.

“Well, what were you even thinking?” Kelly asks eventually.

“I wasn’t,” Connor says. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Kelly says. Connor stares down at the table.

“This has some pretty big implications,” Brian says. “For one—”

“Hey,” Cam interrupts. Connor looks up; that’s the first he’s heard Cam talk all morning, and he’s been avoiding looking at him for his reaction. “Go easy on him, eh? It’s not that big of a deal. If he wants to get married, he should, whatever. He never does anything for himself.” 

Connor frowns. He appreciates Cam going to bat for him, but it’s not exactly necessary. “It was stupid, though,” he points out.

“Shut up,” Cam says good-naturedly. “You’re eighteen, you’re supposed to do stupid things.”

There are a lot of reasons Connor _isn’t_ supposed to do stupid things, and he’s opening his mouth to list them when Cam adds, “And anyway, Aaron Ekblad’s pretty good looking, you could do worse. In fact, best to lock him down now before what’s left of your boyish charm deserts you.”

“What the—you can’t _say_ things like that!” Connor splutters.

“Just did,” Cam says smugly.

“Boys,” Kelly admonishes. “In any case, it’s not the marriage that’s the problem, it’s how public it is, and with no warning for anyone, especially the NHL.” 

“Come on,” Cam scoffs. “His team’s not going to care, he’s way too good for that. He’ll get a slap on the wrist at most.” 

“They’ll probably care,” Connor says.

“Cam’s not wrong,” Brian says. “It’s about what you do for them on the ice, anyway, not in your personal life. It’ll be a madhouse for a while, but they’ll get over it.” 

“I guess,” Connor agrees. It’s true enough, he supposes.

“And next time you want to make a stupid decision,” Kelly says, “run it by us first.”

Connor snorts slightly. “Yeah, okay,” he says. He means it, too. He’s had enough of dumb decisions. 

After breakfast he has to head back to the BB&T Center, where people keep falling tellingly silent when he walks by them. He’s wearing an Oilers shirt they’d given him yesterday, and the tag keeps itching the back of his neck. He does a few interviews, answers essentially the same questions he’s been answering for weeks now, and when one reporter brings up Aaron, he shrugs and says no comment. 

He bumps into Dylan at one point—he’s clutching a water bottle, looking about as awful as Connor still feels. “I can’t believe you let me get married,” Connor mutters to him. 

“I can’t believe you put it on Instagram,” Dylan shoots back, and Connor can’t argue that. That’s really no one’s fault but his and Aaron’s. “Where’s Eks, anyway?” 

“He left,” Connor says. He must let how upset he is show on his face for a moment, because Dylan softens and pulls him into a hug. 

“It’ll be okay,” he says. Connor hugs him back and hopes he’s right. A minute after that, they get ushered away from each other again. 

Connor ends up sitting at the table on the floor with the Oilers brass, watching players get drafted and feeling extremely uncomfortable. He keeps spinning his ring around his finger—he considered taking it off before all the interviews, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. There’s really no point keeping it on, but. He doesn’t want to let it go. 

He’s following one of the members of staff to another interview—the final one for today, he’d been told, but he’s skeptical—when he passes by Mitch, who’s decked out in a slightly different shade of blue from Connor and has a shit-eating grin on his face as soon as he spots him. 

“Hey, Davo,” Mitch says, bumping his shoulder into Connor’s. “Congrats.”

Connor pauses, slightly confused. Mitch had already offered his congratulations multiple times yesterday. “Thanks,” he says anyway. “Guess I’m gonna have to buy some extra winter gear, eh?” He tries for a laugh, but Mitch is giving him a look like he’s said something totally wrong.

“No, you idiot,” Mitch says. “Congrats on your marriage.” 

“...oh,” Connor says, completely thrown. “Thanks.” 

There isn’t time for Mitch to do anything more than roll his eyes and punch Connor in the shoulder before they both have to hurry so they don’t lose the people who were directing them where to go. Connor gets set up for the interview in a daze. It hadn’t really hit him that getting married to Aaron was something worthy of congratulations until Mitch had said it—but of course it is. Cam had even expressed that this morning, but Connor had been freaking out too much to process it. 

It wasn’t a mistake. Connor is suddenly completely, totally sure of it. Agreeing with Aaron when he said it was might’ve been the worst choice Connor’s made in the last 24 hours—and that can’t be said lightly.

At least the draft is almost over. Connor’s able to get through the last of his obligations without too much pain. From there, all he has to do is figure out just how he’s going to find Aaron, because he’s determined to at least make sure Aaron knows that Connor doesn’t regret it. Somehow he doesn’t think a text or a phone call is going to cut it. 

Connor knows Aaron was checking out of the hotel that morning, so operating mostly on a whim, he gets a taxi and tells the driver an address familiar to him from months of reading it off the packages Aaron sent him. He has no idea if Aaron will be there—he could be halfway back to Canada by now, but. Connor has to at least try. 

The house the taxi stops in front of is nice, and there’s an equally nice vehicle parked in the driveway. Connor stares at it for too long, and the cab driver clears his throat. “Sorry,” Connor says, and he makes sure to tip him generously before getting out. He doesn’t let himself hesitate any longer, instead heading straight for the door and ringing the doorbell. 

It takes a minute, but eventually the door swings open to reveal Willie Mitchell. Connor clears his throat awkwardly. “Um, hi, Mr. Mitchell,” he says. “Sorry to bother you, I was just—is Aaron here?” 

Willie looks at Connor for a long moment before he turns back into the house and yells, “Aaron! Your husband is here to see you!” He turns back to Connor and adds, “You may as well come in.” 

Connor is positive that his face is bright red. He steps into the house and nervously shoves his hands into his pockets. 

“I hope you’re here to clear this shit up,” Willie says, “I’ve been letting Eks tear my kitchen up with his long distance pining all season, and just when I think it’s all over, he shows up on my doorstep again.” 

“I’m sorry,” Connor says. 

Willie is waving that off when Aaron appears. He looks even more run down than he had that morning—he’s wearing sweatpants and has dark circles underneath his eyes, and Connor just wants to hug him. 

“What are you doing here?” Aaron asks. He’s avoiding making eye contact, and Connor wishes he wouldn’t.

“Uh,” he says, glancing at Willie. 

Willie puts his hands up in surrender. “I’ll get out of your hair,” he says, and then does just that.

“I’m sorry I left this morning,” Aaron says, surprising Connor. “That was shitty, leaving you alone.”

Connor shrugs. “It’s okay,” he says honestly. 

“It’s not,” Aaron says.

“Fine, then I forgive you,” Connor says.

Aaron nods. He’s staring at a point somewhere over Connor’s left shoulder. Connor tries to swallow and struggles around the pounding of his heart in his throat. “So, uh. I just wanted to say that we could get an annulment or whatever, but—”

“It wasn’t real,” Aaron says. 

Connor blinks in surprise. “What?” 

Aaron shrugs. “Jagr called and told me it wasn’t real. We were drunk, so… we couldn’t sign anything legally binding.” 

“Oh,” Connor says. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about that. 

“So it doesn’t matter if you want to end it,” Aaron says. “It never started.”

Connor knows how he feels about _that_. “No,” he says, stepping closer to Aaron. “That’s my point, I don’t. It might’ve been stupid to get married, but it wasn’t a mistake. Not for me.” 

Aaron is looking at him now. He’s got his hands folded in front of him and his shoulders are tense, like he's hesitant to let himself relax with Connor so close to him. “No?” 

“No,” Connor confirms. “We don’t have to be married, but I do want to date you, because, uh. I don’t know if I’ve really made this obvious, but I’m crazy about you. So.” 

Aaron stares at him and doesn’t say anything. Connor shifts awkwardly; the desperation for Aaron to say _something_ , anything at all, is totally overwhelming. Silence stretches on for so long that Connor is sure Aaron is just trying to come up with a nice way to let him down. 

“It’s fine if you—I’ll just go,” Connor says, stepping away.

Aaron catches him by the wrist. “Don’t you dare,” he says. “I’m crazy about you, too.” 

The tension in the air snaps. “Oh, thank God,” Connor breathes, and then Aaron is kissing him, his hands in Connor’s hair while Connor’s are fisted in the back of Aaron’s shirt. 

“You’re still wearing your ring,” Connor says when they break apart. He can feel it against his skin.

“Yeah,” Aaron says. He brushes a thumb along Connor’s jaw line, and Connor closes his eyes briefly.

“Me too,” he admits. “I knew everyone would ask questions, but—” 

“It just felt wrong,” Aaron says. He laughs quietly. “I guess this is why.” 

Connor nods and kisses him again. “We’re so stupid. I can’t believe we had to get _married_ to get here.” 

“Tell the OHL to take back those scholastic awards,” Aaron jokes, and Connor laughs helplessly, letting his forehead fall to Aaron’s shoulder. 

It’s going to be hard, Connor knows. Next season will drag on with thousands of kilometres between them, with people asking questions about them, with lost games and missed calls. But right here, in this moment, with both of them holding on to each other, Connor is sure that they can make it. 

After all, they’re both exceptional.


End file.
